


inherited

by kurapikano



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Background Relationships, Canon Compliant, Food mention, Gen, POV Second Person, baby kurapika, but very briefly like its not what thjs is about, enby pregnancy specifically, fin vents their native trauma onto native character, i have 848483838323 fics for that dw, leopika is very background this fic is not lpk centric, trans pregnancy implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28668039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurapikano/pseuds/kurapikano
Summary: It's your birthday, and you feel free. You feel liberated, and fearless, and unbound by anything in the world.
Relationships: Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	inherited

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi
> 
> this is a oneshot formed of kurapika's childhood, on the day before a birthday celebration.
> 
> it's in second person pov to immerse you, and put you in their shoes. for indigenous people, or, at least, myself, culture is near and dear to me, and having indigenous coded characters is such a lovely thing. while we know kurapika has lost so much, i think it's nice to zero in on what was once there, and reflect on past happiness — fond memories.
> 
> genocide is a large trauma that has imprinted on the genes of natives for years, and, for me, it makes me cherish what is left of my culture all the more. when you read this, please keep the children of our people in mind, and the sheltering they often have to grow up in due to having to learn about how others have persecuted us for doing nothing more than existing peacefully. it's very real for them, and was very real for me when i was young, to learn about what has happened and what is happening to my people. remember that during this fic, and keep it in your thoughts for a while, if you could — children shouldn't need to worry about these things, and, luckily, they do get their time to feel some freedom. the underlying theme here is that while these moments exist, it remains true that we must be cautious.
> 
> so here is a little ode to the occasional feeling of liberation and connection to what binds us to the earth.
> 
> cw — food mention
> 
> also, at the end, leorio and kurapika (leopika is not the focus of the story but it is there) have a newborn daughter, and, while the intent is to portray and normalize nonbinary childbearing (as an enby myself), you are technically free to interpret it however you see fit, since it is not intrinsic to the story itself.
> 
> enjoy ❤️

"I don't think the outside world could be that bad, now," your mother says, as she combs your hair and weaves a small daisy into it. It's your birth flower, and it's the day before your eleventh birthday. It's tradition, as everyone knows, to have a celebration before each child's birthday, and a bigger one on the day itself. Your feet swing idly above the ground while you sit in the circular chair you're so familiar with, swirls lovingly designed on it like the rest of the world you know.

"Then how come Papa says it's bad, Mama?"

"Your father is...traditional, I suppose," comes her melodic voice, a hum and lilt to it. "Everyone here is scared of the past, you know? They let it hold them back. I think it's silly, to be held down by the past. How will we know if we don't try?"

It makes sense, you think. Your father always says you and Mother are similar people, in looks and attitude, and it's true. You've got wavy blonde curls identical to hers, wide brown eyes, seraphically gentle features — and then you have her spunk and stubbornness. Your father is mellow and strict, though never mean, but you think it's a nice contrast.

"So would you send me out there someday?" you ask, turning your head as your caramel hues sparkle with intrigue. However, your face falls slightly when you see the suddenly reluctant and nervous glint in your mother's face, and she purses her lips slightly, deft fingers brushing a curl out of your face.

"Careful, Kurapika. You'll get your hair all messy."

—

When you pad out into the grass with bare feet, bangles jingling at your ankles and wrists, you take in the feeling gratefully. Every day is a new blessing from Atira, the goddess of the Earth, and you've been raised to appreciate every single one, for it is a privilege, not a given. The chances of being born are small, father said, and you should always be as happy as you can be that you get to spend another day on the green grass with the bright blue sky above you.

You wonder if your people cherish life so much because so many of you have lost it.

Your eyes dance along the greenery that surrounds your world, the sound of the babbling brook faint in your ears. You're closer to it than some others, and you like it when you sit by it and it sings to you, flowing however it likes and being as stubborn as always. It misbehaves, and that's what you are so fond of — water is never afraid, and it never yields.

You think it's amazing, as a child in a clan of people who have to be alert to survive. You wish you could afford to be half as strong and risky as the water.

Your gaze catches your friend, Pairo, shucking maize next to his father. Today, as all kids do on pre-birthday celebrations, he's wearing a ribbon skirt, one you remember watching his mother sew as she taught the both of you how. Usually, kids learned a tad later, but you were special exceptions, she'd said. That was enough for the two of you to giggle and brag to the other children about.

Or,  _ you  _ bragged — Pairo is too mellow for that, even if he  _ is  _ a sneaky, clever little weasel when the situation calls for it.

You shout his name, and he looks up, mahogany eyes glittering about before they meet yours and a smile forms. He waves, and then motions you over, but he doesn't have to. You're already on your way, even if you briefly hear your father call to you hastily that you forgot your woven flower crown as he notices you taking off.

You can practically hear his sigh, but he adores you anyway.

Once you get to them both, you notice Pairo's lyre leaned next to the log he's sitting on, next to his father, who offers you a similar smile and wave, and a  _ "Good morning, Kurapika." _ Pairo's one of the village kids who decided to learn an instrument — two, actually. He's talented at it, and an avid bright mind. The kids who know how to play play at celebrations, and you're already frothing with excitement at the idea of your very best friend doing it at  _ your  _ celebration.

You should learn, to play at his during the winter solstice.

Without needing an invite or ask, you take hold of one of the corn ears, peeling off the first layer of leaves and reveling in the familiar sound of it tearing from the bottom's hard center. The little hairs on the vegetable pop up and briefly tickle your nose, which scrunches up as your eyes squeeze shut in surprise.

As soon as you open them, you and Pairo are giggling in amusement, before you keep shucking with smiles on your faces.

There's not much better than this. You don't need a celebration today, and if they didn't hold one, it would be okay, as long as you had Pairo and your families with you, shucking corn and playing tunes on the lyre and handpan drum.

"Are you excited?" Pairo asks, meticulously peeling the stray pieces off.

"Yeah," you mumble, thoughtfully, as your tongue pokes out the side of your mouth while you concentrate on fully clearing off the corn, setting it in the other basket when you're satisfied and grabbing another one. "I heard the chief gives you gold pieces on your eleventh birthday — or, the day before. Did you know that? I could—"

You pause.

"I'm not sure what I'll do with it yet!"

Pairo laughs, airy and light, nose wrinkling as it always does when he's happy. "You could get fresh strawberries from Adsila, maybe. They're almost always in season, so I bet she has good ones."

Your mouth forms a perfect "o" at the suggestion, eyes widening and brightening. "Ohh, you're right — I wonder how much the elder gives out! I could get the really good ones, maybe," you babble, already getting excited.

"Kurapika, your eyes are red."

You blink, and then you laugh sheepishly. "I got—"

"Excited?"

"Yeah!"

Amusement twinkles in Pairo's eyes, and he shakes his head, like he just doesn't know what to do with you. Brown curls bounce with the movement, and you can already imagine the hollies twirled in them when his birthday comes up.

—

By noon, when the sun is high in the sky in the throes of April, you're running around the bonfire with grass stains on the soles of your feet. You'll all wash off in the brook tonight and send good wishes with it, a message to Atira that you've celebrated her gift to you, and you'll then go to bed with daisies sprinkled around you, to wake up in the scent and energy of your birth. For now, though, you're headed straight for the desserts table, and nobody can stop you today.

You're taking full advantage of that, and, from the way Pairo meets your eyes from the music circle while he plucks gracefully at the lyre's strings, he's going to do the same when his rolls around.

Your hands immediately grab your favorite — frybread with sugar and strawberries. It's still warm, still fresh, and you bite into it with reckless abandon, the juice of the fruit exploding ceremoniously onto your tongue, the tart flavor making you shiver with positive stimulation. The frybread is just crunchy enough, and soft on the inside, and the sugar compliments both other parts. You think it's maybe the best taste in the world, besides the fruit juices your mother makes by hand.

Your mouth practically waters at the thought of the mango-cherry one in the middle of the table, but you can't have  _ that  _ one until you  _ all  _ sit down to eat.

That's torturous, cruel, and unusual punishment, you think.

But that juice is special, as it would be — the mango is a symbol of life and happiness, and the cherry a symbol of renewal, purity, and prosperity, all qualities wished to be carried on. Your gentle mark given at birth on the nape of your neck wishes eternal happiness for you, and the one you gained at age ten for abundant luck and joy.

Your clan creates a substance of things like madder root and henna seeds to produce long lasting dyes, and applies it to an infant's skin when they are born. It's not harmful to the child's skin nor does it seep in dangerously like one would worry — it's handmade and entirely safe. Birth marks are given to manifest certain wishes for a child's life, and you gain one every ten years until your parents can no longer speak one for you. Of course, you only have two, so far.

You love them.

You hope the juice helps reinforce them, and you wonder what your parents will choose for you when you're twenty, an adult and ready to be on your own. You briefly wonder what you'll be doing when you're twenty, but it doesn't  _ really  _ matter, because, for now, you're ten, eleven tomorrow, and it's so far away to your childish mind that you can't be bothered to think about it too hard.

For now, you let nature's gentle hand guide you along.

—

Once the children are done playing the music, the adults take over, and everyone who is not playing, along with the young children, is dancing.

Your bangles clack on your wrists and ankles as you step to the right and bring it into a twirl, your arms out in front of you and moving with your direction as naturally as a salmon rides with the stream. The feathers that decorate your hair now, along with the flowers, to signal that this is  _ your  _ celebration, flare in the night breeze, red and orange and fiery. Your mother and father beaded the tassels which swish with them, as is tradition, and you're so happy you could die. Your chest is full of song and joy as you move with everyone else, the grass chilly from the nighttime cold. Your ribbon skirt, elaborate and flowing under you, makes you feel like you're free, someone of high status, someone who was not born miles away before being swept off elsewhere for the sake of life. It's pretty, and you helped sew it, with strips of your old clothes circling around it in the circle of life itself. You feel liberated, light,  _ unbound. _

It is, maybe, the greatest feeling you know, especially alongside the overwhelming love your people have for you, and that which you have for them.

Pairo hums the traditional song to himself next to you, moving exactly as you do, uninhibited like the branch of the willow tree. You beam brightly, and he returns the same look when he sees, and you giggle under the night sky. Before either of you know it, a few other children are trembling in the chest with held back laughter, because the gods know the elder will be frustrated with you all if you mess up the dance.

He loves you all anyway, though. You all know it.

When the tune hits its climax, the ground echoes with stomps of bare feet directing energy into the soil of the Earth, drawing up blessings and vibrations that keep the spirit of your people alive,  _ your  _ spirit alive. The chants begin, and you shout them with glee, perhaps more of a scream than a strongly voiced song on your part. Your father's eyes twinkle with amusement, and a mellow smile is directed at you while your mother laughs joyously at your excitement, blonde ringlet curls bouncing with the movement.

Your smile only grows, and, as soon as the dance ends with a flourish, you throw yourself at your parents, seeking their warm and loving embraces.

And you get them, wholeheartedly.

—

When you've all sat down to eat, the final part of the night, a baby no older than a year or two waddles up to you and babbles something vague, something that isn't quite language yet.

You pat the seat next to you, and Pairo leans to look at what you're doing it for. He pauses, smiles, and waves at the little one, who giggles in reply and crawls up onto the seat. She's tiny, and brunette locks fall in loose curls around a chubby face.

Before the meal officially begins, you take a few flowers out of your hair and braid them into hers, and she looks ecstatic, gurgling and cooing as she pats the tiny flowers.

You like to make people happy, like to give your people joy. It's part of your values as a people — to share mournfulness and joyfulness all the same.

—

After a long night, when you've had your fill of ripe oranges and maize, smoked meats and beans, your mother has you cradled in her arms as soon as you say goodbye and goodnight to Pairo. You clutch the money from the elder in your little hand — he'd told you to save it up, but you both know you won't.

It's okay, though, because he told you to stay safe and warm tonight, to wake up early in the morning for celebrations. That's the one thing — you're little, and you're exhausted enough from this alone.

But, sleepy or not, you'll still enjoy the raspberry pancakes.

Mother is strong and firm, something one would not expect from her petite frame, but when she sets you down among your fresh daisies and puts your money on your side table, it's still incredibly gentle.

She presses a kiss to your forehead, like your father had before you went to your bedroom with her, and whispers you a good night, pulling soft, woven quilts over your little frame and brushing blonde curls out of your face as your eyes flutter shut, long eyelashes flittering on your cheekbones.

You drift off to sleep easily, young and unaware.

—

When you are twenty — twenty three, to be exact — you never get a new mark. Nobody is there to give you it, and you haven't had a celebration in eleven years.

You don't have your clan anymore, or your old home, but that isn't quite to say you've lost everything. You've gained, too — you've gained a husband, and, now, on a late April morning, a newborn is squirming in your arms and on your chest, pink and wrinkly and beautiful.

Her eyes are closed, and she has your long eyelashes, and the beginning of Leorio's dark tufts of hair. She will have brown eyes — you just wonder if she'll inherit what has become something of a curse for you.

Yet, if she did, you would feel blessed, too.

You would like it to continue on, but how would you cope if your dearest new baby daughter was ever in danger? You don't think you would — you've lost so much already.

But you want to weave daisies in her hair. You want her to ask you if you'll let her explore the world, so you can answer with what you've decided is the right response.

_ "Water is never afraid, and it never yields." _


End file.
